


Cold feet

by cucumber_of_doom



Series: With hands and feet [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre Relationship, severed feet are a normal occurance in this flat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cucumber_of_doom/pseuds/cucumber_of_doom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some domestic pre-relationship fluff.<br/>And a pair of severed feet.<br/>Nothing out of the ordinary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold feet

**Author's Note:**

> Any mistakes are my own. Please feel free to point out anything I missed.

The flat was wonderfully quiet, almost unusual, but John wouldn't complain. The last week had been busy enough. A triple-murder disguised as suicide in Southbank Sherlock had nearly dismissed as boring but that then kept him awake for four days straight and ended with a gunfight at the banks of the Thames. After the events of that case John could handle some quit, especially on Christmas. He had already completed his mandatory phone call with Harry earlier that day and hoped for a few uneventful days. 

He and Sherlock had exchanged their presents earlier that day.  
John browsed through the stack of medical journals from the 30's Sherlock had gifted him with. Not up to date but fascinating and almost felt guilty for not having given something more personal himself. A new scarf had seemed like the logical choice at some point, but in comparison to that journals it looked like the sad remains of their Christmas tree. John had let Mrs. Hudson bully him into decorating the living room, but the tree hadn't survived his first encounter with Sherlock. 

Apparently there was a surprisingly big amount of experiments one could run with some fir branches and tinsel which mostly involved fire and different acids. At least he had tried.  
He should have known that this wouldn't work with Sherlock around.

“Sherlock! Where are you going?”, he shouted at the sound of Sherlock emerging from his room and grabbing his coat. The Consulting Detective only glared at him from across the room.

“Bart's, obviously. I do need a pair of human feet and since you would be rather useless without I need to go.”

“Thanks for the consideration”, John replied dryly and Sherlock huffed.

“Don't be dense, John. I am only picking up leftovers from Molly.”

“Sherlock, I am pretty sure Molly doesn't work on Christmas and no one else working in the morgue will give you human feet. And calling them leftovers is pretty rude.”

“Don't act like you are ordinary, John.”  
And with that he stormed out of the flat and down the stairs. John only shook his head and turned back to his journals.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sherlock returned in the late afternoon, coat and hair damp from the drizzling rain outside and a rather large plastic bag at his side, which he placed on the coffee-table after removing said coat. 

John leant forward.  
“What's in that bag?”

“A pair of feet, of course. Didn't you listen?”, Sherlock snarled and sat down in his chair.

John pulled open the bag carefully, peeked inside and closed it quickly. Yes, unmistakable a pair of feet. He let out a sigh. 

“I know you hate it when I am stating the obvious, but I need to understand this. So you went to Bart's. On Christmas. And broke into the morgue to steal some feet.”

“Don't be so imprecise. Of course I had to saw them off first. They don't have feet just lying around to pick up.”

“Wait! What? You stole them?”

“I need them for an experiment. It would have been a waste to let them get buried with the rest of the body.”

“Sherlock! You cannot steal random feet from dead people.”

Sherlock looked offended at that statement.  
“They are hardly random. Size 11. Previous owner male, died age 68 of myocardial infarction. Beginning diabetes but no related damage to the extremities yet.”

John sighed again and pinched his nose with two fingers.  
“Not the point, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scowled.  
“Bit not good?”, he asked after a brief pause. John nodded.

“Bit not good, Sherlock.”

Sherlock made an attempt to start talking again, when the bell at the front door rang, followed by the sound of Mrs. Hudson opening some moments later. It was Lestrades voice that answered.

“Boys? You have got visitor”, their landlady called as the detective climbed the stairs after exchanging some pleasantries with her. Sherlock rose from his chair and nearly bolted to the kitchen. John raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. One grew used to strange behaviour when living with Sherlock.

“Baker Street was on my way, so I thought I could say hi. So... merry Christmas, I guess”

“Merry Cristmas, Greg. You... want to stay for while?”  
“No, it's fine”

“Do you have a new case for me, Lestrade?”, Sherlock asked from the kitchen.

“No, it's my day off, Christ. Wait.” He opened the bag on the coffee table. “Are those human feet?”

“No, it's our Christmas dinner”, Sherlock interrupted, stepping out of the kitchen and into the living room “Of course it's human feet. Now go away. You want to go home but feel bound to visit and check on me, probably due to Mycroft calling you last week. I am fine, John is fine, now bugger off.”

“Anyone beside the poor bastard missing his feet”, Lestrade interrupted and Sherlock paced agitated over to the table. It looked less dramatic than usual with him missing both the coat and his dressing grown to billow behind him.  
“He was dead anyway!”

John decided to intervene before Sherlock could say anything that would force Letrade to arrest him.  
“Sherlock!”

So what if he wasn't very creative about it? It was enough for Lestrade shake his head.

“Right. As I said, I just wanted to see if you were all right. I'll be on my way then. I didn't see anything. John. Take care.”

“Sure thing, Greg”, John said with a tight smile.

The detective raked a hand through his greying hair, then glanced over to the table, nodded and turned to leave the flat. 

After they heard him move down and out to the street, John went back to his chair.

“Sherlock?”

“What?”

“Get those feet off the table.”

Who needed normal anyway?


End file.
